


The Fallen

by onlymostlydead



Series: Noctifer [1]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Ableist Language, Absent Parents, Angst, Child Neglect, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Permanent Injury, Physical Disability, Trailer Spoilers, Whump, based on the trailer, other character appearances ;)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25966597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlymostlydead/pseuds/onlymostlydead
Summary: “Brother,please,” Sam pleaded at the end of the blade.Michael twisted his sword, allowing it to bite into flesh; to spill his other half’s blood. He had nothing more to say to Samael.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar, Michael & Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV)
Series: Noctifer [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884706
Comments: 49
Kudos: 163





	1. Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags!
> 
> BIG thank you to my beta azure_iolite!! As well as the folks at Filii Hircus and my fellow Mi-Clowns! Love y'all! (*￣3￣)╭
> 
> Anyways, this fic is fully written and just waitin' to be posted. Right before Season 5... 😅

“Brother, _please,_ ” Sam pleaded at the end of the blade.

Michael twisted his sword, allowing it to bite into flesh; to spill his other half’s blood. He had nothing more to say to Samael.

Not after he had ruined everything.

They were _happy_. _All_ they had to do was follow their Father’s orders.

Why did Sammy have to be… _Sammy?_ Always questioning, always _wanting_. Now...

Now he had gone _too far_ , the fragile peace among them shattered. Brothers and sisters turned against one another. Mother had become cold and distant; and Father was _angry_.

Michael didn’t like it when He was angry.

It seemed Sam had nothing more to say to Michael, either. He glared back with an expression Michael was sure mirrored his own. They had the same face, after all. Identical in every way, aside from their wings; Night and Day. Shadow and Light.

He knew God arrived when Heaven fell still. The thousands of siblings gathered around the twins may as well have become stone; their standing, rustling feathers pressed flat in subservience and fear. Michael held still, even as blood dripped into his eyes. He refused to blink at the bitter sting.

The Venom’s face softened, as the great love he shared with Father prevailed. Even now. Michael pushed down the familiar bite of jealousy. Of course they should love their Lord and Father above All, even nigh-inseparable twins. “Father!” his brother cried out.

“ _Silence!_ ” The ground beneath Michael’s feet shivered. His prostrated brother pressed his trembling lips together, and his chest shuddered with the force of his choked back sob.

God’s form drew near, His presence a blazing inferno. Michael would dare not turn his head to look, but he could feel his Father’s Light, searing his skin in His intensity.

“Sheathe your sword, Nightbringer,” He commanded, Michael obeyed. Sam hastily shifted from grieving son to defiant soldier. At least the Nightbringer would admit that _he_ lied.

God paused, then reached out to Samael with His Light, the Lightbringer wetly gasping at His sacred touch. “My son, what is the meaning of this? Speak.”

Sam swallowed, then spoke with an even voice, “I want what the mortals have, Free Will. For myself, and my kind.”

“No,” He said in a flat tone, absolute, “It is not meant for you.”

“Why? Are we not also Your children? Why do mere mortals get what we cannot have ourselves?” Michael so desperately wanted to silence his foolhardy twin. Why couldn’t he just _listen?_

God’s Light dimmed for just the moment. “You know not what you speak of, boy.”

“I know that it is unjust!” Sam screamed at God. Michael felt the cold shock of fear crawling down his spine.

Their Father’s Light tightened its hold around the kneeling archangel. He whimpered at the pressure. “And is it _just_ to turn your siblings against one another? To shed blood?”

Sam at least had the sense to look ashamed. “I… didn’t mean for it to go so far,” he spoke in a much smaller voice. Then his face hardened, “But I do not regret it. Our right to Free Will is a worthy fight.”

Michael felt a flicker of God’s Light, akin to one sighing and shaking their head. “And you will never cease fighting for it, will you?”

The Lightbringer’s clenched jaw and resolute stare was answer enough.

“Then I have no choice.” A pause so long to make Heaven tremble in suspense, then He boomed, “Samael, Venom of My Name no longer, I cast thee out!” His sentence, a strike of lightning across the host; clear to all. Banishment.

Deceptively delicate, polished chains faded into existence around his wings, binding them together before the shock could fully form on his face.

His exiled brother screamed wordlessly as the ground beneath him vanished. His wings strained against the chains in vain, his limbs flailed.

His desperation found Michael’s wing before he could distance himself from the cast out angel. A hand latched on to the high arch, then another. With the snap of delicate bone and an excruciating wrench of his shoulder, he was screaming and plummeting along with his twin.

They tumbled over and over each other; wind tearing across Michael’s flesh, through ruffled feathers. The Lightbringer howled and begged in his ear within the same breath, though the words were unclear and muffled strangely. He blinked sluggishly, breathing was a laborious effort. He couldn’t move.

Then all at once, his brother’s panicked babbling registered, “Brother! Mi! _Please!_ Please help me!” Michael ignored the pang in his chest in favor of the real all-encompassing hurt of his right side. He unfroze and shoved his sobbing brother off of him, an apology trapped in his throat. He snapped his dark wings out, a sharp bark of pain squeezed out of him, and watched his twin fall away.

He could not linger though, his injured wing could not sustain flight for long. He drew from what strength he had left, and began beating with the powerful - _excruciating_ \- downstrokes needed to get back home.

* * *

Michael fell to his knees, shaking and panting. His right arm and wing hung limp and crooked at his side. Broken, but home.

When he could breathe again in shallow puffs, he looked up, to await his Heavenly Father’s direction. He found that He was not there, nor his siblings. He climbed to his feet, unable to stop himself from crying out at the way the movement jostled his hurts; even if it was a far smaller movement than flying. Did none of his family care that he had nearly Fallen too? What of his Father?

No. Surely they were just… occupied. Yes. Father would have commanded that they start cleaning up Sa- the mess after the Rebellion. That they return to their assigned tasks, as angels _should_.

He needed to find Father, to be told what to do. He took a step and was nearly sent to his knees by the intensity of the pain. Perhaps he should let Raphael heal him first, so that he may actually make it there; and to fulfil his God-given duties efficiently, of course.

He began a prayer to Raphael but was promptly cut off by her harried response, _Busy!_

Well, there had been many injuries; he supposed he should just leave her to it. For now he would speak with God; even if the walk to His study seemed truly daunting. He doubted he’d cover the distance faster on his wings as they were.

* * *

Michael trembled, the entrance way he leaned upon the only thing keeping him upright. God had yet to acknowledge him and his stomach turned strangely.

“Father, I... how may I serve you?” he asked when he was no longer panting; for that would be disrespectful in the Lord’s presence. He resisted the urge to further question why He hadn’t helped his near Fall. Too many questions got one cast out from Paradise. His eyes stung traitorously.

His Father nary turned towards him, “Not now, Michael.”

Before he could stop himself he blurted out, “But Father-”

“No!” He snarled, causing Michael to recoil enough to nearly lose his fragile footing. “Not now. Go, for I cannot bear to look upon you.”

Michael gasped and slid to his knees; the weight of His words - His _rejection_ \- too heavy upon him. _Why…?_ What had he _done?_ God was… disappointed in him? Angry? For not keeping an adequate eye on his forever boisterous and foolhardy twin one time out of eons, or for nearly Falling? He shuddered and wrapped his working arm around him, the other useless at his side.

“Michael…” Father growled, His Light flashing dangerously. Michael scrambled to his weary feet and ran.

* * *

Michael hid away shamefully, ignoring Raphael’s questioning prayers. No one ever found him, either because of his Gift of Deception, or because none of his family truly cared to look for him. The darkness spreading within him insisted it was the latter as time went on.

When finally he ceased hiding away like a coward, his body was thoroughly broken. Raphael cajoled him into letting her heal him, rebreaking his wing and forcefully setting his shoulder. Yet soon after, he shattered all over again. He did not understand why his body punished him so, yet he couldn’t find it within himself to care. It made him wonder if his mind was broken too. He did not return to his sister.

He used his Gift and much of his strength to hide his bodily weakness. It was agonizing to keep a straight posture, to hide away his wings. He could only keep up the charade for so long, eventually leaving him no choice but to allow all to see the _true_ Sword of God - was he the Sword anymore? - until he could find the energy to pretend again.

There were stares and whispers; pitying looks and scornful ones. He attempted to ignore them but the feeling of inferiority grew, until it shifted into apathy.

Father never spoke to His children again; never called upon the Power of the Demiurge he had treasured once - _was Power nothing without Will?_ Michael wondered if that was worse than His wrath.

* * *

Time passed as languidly as ever in the Silver City. Man indeed spread forth and multiplied, Heaven bustling with their souls even if a great many of them ended up damned in Lucifer’s domain.

Michael observed his twin from afar when he found the time, their innate bond allowing them to observe one another even across planes. Not that Lucifer ever looked in on Michael, as he was seemingly attempting to forget his entire family. Michael understood that at times. Other times, their bond tightened painfully at the thought, constricting his chest. He breathed through it.

He watched Lucifer continually disobey God’s Last Command, leaving Hell to debauch himself on Earth amongst the mortals. He would have found it amusing to watch Amenadiel chase the Devil back down over and over again with his characteristic scowl; if only he hadn’t become thoroughly weary of life from the pain of his body and his Father’s abandonment. Even Mother, as frigid as She had become, was gone now.

He occasionally found himself feeling foolishly sentimental toward his twin outside of their irksome bond, before he was reminded. Lucifer, even now, seemed as outgoing and cheerful as ever. And he couldn’t miss how his twin’s body had remained whole and hale, even if _he_ was the one who had landed in the lake of fire and sulfur. It made Michael wonder who had _truly_ Fallen.

* * *

_Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil; May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls. Amen._

It was an old prayer, less frequent than it had been once, yet still common. It had amused Michael at first. Him, the Cripple of God, help _anyone?_ Besides, the Devil was far from wicked. Hedonistic, maybe. And Azrael was far too good at her job to allow spirits to walk the earth.

Then, as more time went on, the prayers less but still present; Michael merely felt empty.

* * *

The last few mortal years were… odd, in regards to Lucifer. It had started out normal. The Devil had crawled back up to revel in the carnal union of flesh - Michael didn’t understand the appeal, it all seemed quite messy and pointless outside of conception - and mind altering substances. Amenadiel had flown down again, muttering under his breath as he spread his charcoal wings. Michael’s lame wing ached with the memory of flying instead of laughing at the First Born’s objectively amusing misfortune.

It seemed to go much the same as it had many times before; until it didn’t. Lucifer had somehow made a deal with Amenadiel. The Devil was staying.

Then he... butchered his glorious wings as a sign of his decision and to spite their Father. Holy gifts from God that had nary changed since the Demiurge was brought forth into the universe. Michael grinded his teeth, blasphemy. _Wasteful_.

Despite his quiet rage, Michael observed his wayward brother more closely after that. Five years nothing changed from his previous visits other than his ridiculous, _pointless_ amputation.

Until he met Chloe Jane Decker, or “the detective,” as his brother called her. Thank Dad for that. He had very little patience left after the Rebellion; he had grown thoroughly fatigued by the constant sex and revelries. Even Amenadiel had become dull in his repetitious tactics to chase Lucifer back down into the Pit. Was he even _trying_ anymore? Lame.

He watched as the mortal resisted the Lightbringer’s power over Desire - interesting, that - and he watched his brother quickly shift from simply lustful, to smitten. So smitten in fact, that he had briefly died for her. Michael would have known it was so even if he had not witnessed it; the vice clenching his heart when their bond severed doubled him over with a level of pain he hadn’t felt since Lucifer had ruined him so long ago.

The agony in his chest lessened just when he thought he would perish himself, finding that Lucifer had done the impossible. He had come back to the land of the living from a mortal wound. His mortality… It confounded Michael and should’ve been perverse to an immortal such as the Devil; but he took the change with the same manic glee he did everything. It made the Nightbringer seethe.

Then everything went, well, as the humans put it: “to shit.”

Lucifer’s dying prayer to their Father had echoed amongst the Host - Michael supposes that it would be hard to specify a direction when one’s bleeding out. He had made a deal, to do anything so long as _Chloe_ was safe. The use of her given name rather than _Detective_ didn’t escape Michael’s sharp observation. It was significant in a way he did not understand, not until Uriel had called it _Love_ with a sneer. He had to agree with the sentiment; yet still kept his own thoughts behind his well-practiced stony exterior. Not because he cared to hide his opinions, merely that he loathed the scrawny bastard. The scar helped.

When Lucifer was brought back by Father - because _of course,_ God would abandon everyone _but_ his favorite son; even after _banishment_ \- he was shown Mother’s open cell. It was clear. The deal was to send Goddess back to Her rightful prison, in return for Chloe’s wellbeing.

Mother had eventually found Her beloved Lightbringer, and Lucifer seemed rightfully suspicious of Her intentions, at first. Then he fell head first into Her _clear_ manipulations. _Idiot!_ He forced his ruffled, jagged feathers to lie flat. No. It had been a long time since he cared for his twin the way he had, and he wasn’t dredging up old feelings _now_. Too much had happened; too much pain. He was just frustrated at the display of stupidity, was all.

While it frustrated Michael, it made Uriel _furious_. Pacing with his feathers raised in agitation; more cornered, frothing feline than angel. That’s what Michael saw at any rate, when Uriel deigned to lower himself to the crippled archangel’s presence. He only seemed to do so when he needed direct observation of Lucifer, when his Sight failed him in details. The younger angel may have denied it, but Michael knew he was out to get Lucifer. Michael himself would have _loved_ to fuck with his irritatingly cheerful twin; but he despised how Uriel looked upon his broken body with contempt. Enough so that he never answered the other’s questions, merely smirking.

The Light of God would fume and huff, mocking him with belittling titles he had long gotten used to. _Cripple of God_ was a particular favorite of the Host. Then he would eventually fly off when he grew tired of Michael’s frigid silence, leaving him in blessed peace. This happened a few times before stopping entirely. He thought nothing of it.

 _Uh, Mikey? You haven’t seen my uh... super special and super deadly sw- blade, have you?_ Azrael prayed to him some time later. Odd, they rarely spoke since Lucifer’s sentence. They had been close once, not as much as her and Sam; but enough. After the Rebellion the two had drifted apart - Michael preferring solitude and the Angel of Death was busy with how fast the mortals bred and, inevitably - as was their nature - perished. But she was the only one that had remained _decent_ to him after his injuries, so he answered.

_No._

There was a pause so great that Michael nearly considered elaborating, until finally his little sister responded. _As talkative as ever, huh? Well, crap! Well, I guess I’ll ask around some more... Only millions of siblings to pray to, right? Um, yeah... Smell ya later, Mike!_ He didn’t bother replying.

Interesting. Azrael’s blade, missing. He couldn’t see her misplacing it, she cherished her gift from Father just as he did his ring - wholly unique within the universe, save for its near identical twin on the Devil’s hand. So, one of their siblings must have stolen it. He wondered briefly who had stolen it and why; until he next looked in on Lucifer, who was at that moment driving the missing blade into Uriel’s heart. Ah.

* * *

_Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil; May God rebuke him, we humbly pray; And do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the power of God, thrust into hell Satan and all evil spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls. Amen._

Little did the mortals know that the Devil nary needed defeating, when he sought oblivion himself.

* * *

Uriel’s death echoed throughout the Silver City. The angels cried _murder!_ and _injustice!_ over a sniveling little runt that everyone hated when he was alive. In death, it seemed, he was beloved, sweet Uriel. Funny, that. They tried to gain their Father’s attention to no avail. Michael sat slouched against a wall, quietly observing.

He saw the way his brother fell apart, what obliterating Uriel from existence had done to him. He wasn’t a murderer, and none of the others knew this. Not that Michael would tell them. He didn’t hold enough love for his twin anymore to care for his reputation. Besides, they wouldn’t listen at any rate. His weakness ensured that he was as good as invisible when he wasn’t needed. He knew better now; it wasn’t his Gift cloaking him.

Michael stood, swaying awkwardly with his crooked pose and painfully stiff shoulder. He swept his wings behind him, the left tucked neatly to his back while the right stayed half unfurled. His arm hung useless at his side, hitched up as it was to ease the pain. He huffed and used part Deception, part sheer will, to hide his condition. He grit his teeth - doing this was always agony - he breathed deeply through it; until it became bearable again. Then he made off for his post, one of his ancient duties: guarding Heaven. It was a pointless task, the angels and archangels - Soldiers of God - had long since defeated the primordial Darkness that plagued the Silver City in the Very Beginning. Still, his post was quiet and secluded.

He walked past his arguing siblings, his lumbering gait the best he could do to disguise his heavy limp. None looked at him, averting their gazes as he passed. Michael ignored them in turn. Let them bicker amongst themselves.

* * *

They acted as if he didn’t notice their mouths snapping shut as he neared, that he didn’t hear the whispers when they believed he wasn’t listening. The Host may have quieted, but it remained outraged. They spoke of punishing the Punisher, that Father doing nothing was unjust. They spoke grand words of overthrowing the Creator, to take Paradise for themselves, of doling out their ideas of justice - as if they forgot what had happened to the last rebellious son of God. The lowest, most secretive words were those of using the Demiurge. Michael could have laughed. As if either he or Lucifer would willingly help them. The sooner they realized this, the better off they would be.

After hearing the same moronic schemes over and over again, he grew bored and returned to observing his twin. Watching the Devil bumble through his relationship with the Detective was far more amusing, even if it exasperated him occasionally. _Why_ he couldn’t just _talk_ to her, one mortal woman, was beyond Michael.

Mother was conniving, per usual. She planned to use Azrael’s Blade - in actuality, the Flaming Sword; so that’s where that went - to cut through the gates of Heaven. And _Amenadiel_ the favorite son? He snorted at that. There was also a God Johnson stirring up hopes which he thought had long since perished; but he turned out to be simply a man under the influence of divinity. He cursed himself for his weakness, for acting like a yearning fledgling. His heart still ached.

When he next looked back in, Lucifer was sending Mother away to Her own universe. The devastation on his face, shown plainly to the world in a way that Michael never could, mirrored his own buried pain.

He was left for dead in the desert, and Michael _almost_ felt pity for him, until his _wings_ came back. Whole and as brilliant as the day he was created, not a single feather out of place.

For the first time since Lucifer had dragged him down into his Fall, since he had _ruined_ him, the Nightbringer felt _everything_. He howled, the scream tearing out of his chest, sending him to his knees. His dulled wings instinctively wrapped around him, the right one sagging. Michael snarled at the sight, the harsh sound catching in his swollen throat, and he plucked at them. Handful after handful until he left great bald patches. Wretched sobs stole what little strength he remained, until he had no more grief to give, and he let himself slump to the ground.

How _dare_ him.

* * *

Michael did not observe his twin’s life again for some time. When he did, when he was just simply too _bored_ , he found that Lucifer seemed to be suffering just as much as he was. _Good_.

A new man in the Detective’s life - Cain. As always, he was as dull as the rock he caved his brother’s skull in with. Lucifer, a love sick fool. It was amusing at first, then tedious as it dragged on for far too long.

The ultimate climax to this dreary part of his twin’s life was both satisfying and painful to watch. The Detective _finally_ knew. Terribly thick-skulled woman, that Chloe Decker. Really, Michael didn’t see what Lucifer saw in her - perhaps it was love.

But the way she found out… This was the first time Michael clearly saw the consequences of his brother’s Fall. He may have his perfect wings again, but he was far from unscathed. Yet… _his_ scars obviously didn’t hurt him, nor were they difficult to hide. In fact, they were _gone_ entirely for some time. And of course, all his brother did was bitch about losing his precious “Devil face,” because of course _his_ injuries were _useful_.

He forced himself to cease his wrathful plucking, an unseemly habit for an angel of the Lord. Even for one as disgraced as he.

* * *

“Aww, Mike, you gotta stop pulling out your feathers like that. It’s no good for you, you know?” Eve cooed and Michael nearly jumped. How had she snuck up on him? And why was she speaking to _him?_ Adam’s Wife avoided him nearly more than his own ashamed siblings. He reminded her of her lover from the Garden, of his twin. He could see it, in the shuttered longing of her dark eyes. He tucked his wings within him instead of replying, hiding the shudder of folding his lame appendage. Her pitying expression told him he hadn’t fully succeeded, and he silently cursed himself.

“You don’t mind if I take a quick trip to the living, do you, Michael?” she asked, fluttering her lashes and rocking on the balls of her feet. _Wha-?_ She lit up at his stunned silence.  
  
“Is that a yes?” She squealed, then she wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss on his cheek before he could dodge the assault on his person, “Thank you so much, Michael!” His body protested the extra weight, as insignificant as it was. Yet not even a groan escaped him, in his confusion. Eve took advantage of his lapse and was gone. _What? How-?_

When he next looked in on Lucifer, lo and behold, there was Eve. Huh. He rubbed his cheek and grimaced.

* * *

Michael watched the Devil’s insane, rich life unfold. Of course, not until after the six months where he seemed to have stalled. Playing the same melody over and over on his ludicrous piano because _his Detective_ fled from his scarred visage. _Melodramatic ass._

_You’re so fucking special… What the hell am I doing here?_

He watched Eve, alive and youthful once more. Happier than she had ever been in the Silver City. Lucifer wasn’t quite his cheerful self _now_ , not with the schism between him and precious Chloe - seriously, listening to _that priest?_ But he had a life, _friends_ , who treated him with respect. Michael straightened out his wings after finding them half wrapped around himself, against his will.

Then Lucifer made a selfless choice _for once_. He was going back to Hell, to take back his throne and keep the demons content; to protect his mortal friends and his infant nephew. He was leaving his _First Love_ behind, for good. He spread once-again white feathered wings - the bastard - and was gone.

Michael saw an opportunity.

* * *

He ended up, not stalling - _planning_ \- for roughly six mortal months. He would leave the Silver City, for good. Even if he desired to return, he would be unable to fly back up on _his_ wings. But why would he ever _want_ to? What was there left for him in so-called Paradise? The hateful stares, the mocking... a silent Father?

No, he would go to Earth where he could be _free_ from this nonsense. He would step into his twin’s Italian leather shoes and use his divine power to hide a few _differences_. He could be adored and admired, just like that. He had never enjoyed attention like his brother did, it was true, but he could have some fun with it; experience something _new_. And when he inevitably got bored of his brother’s mortal ants, he would mess up the life his twin built, fuck with him. Then move on to greener pastures, as the mortal saying goes. It was petty and below him, he knew, but what did it matter anymore?

And maybe, _just maybe_ , Dad would _at last_ pay attention to him, if only he became the antagonist to His darling Lightbringer. Nightbringer, Noctifer, could be an apt villain’s name.

 _Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle-_ came the prayer again. He huffed, Saint Michael indeed.

He fell. Amen.


	2. Light

Falling _hurt_. A great deal more than Michael had expected. He crawled out of his impact crater and flopped onto his back, his entire right side alight with agony. The stars twinkled above him, creations that Lucifer would claim were solely his, but were in truth a joint effort of the Demiurge. When he caught his breath again, he threw his head back against the rough sand and _laughed_.

* * *

When he found people - turns out he had fallen into the barren Mojave Desert - he affected his twin’s charming - _pretentious_ \- accent and big sad eyes more akin to a lowly, begging canine than an archangel. The humans were quick to help him return “home,” the City of Angels, sympathetic to his mostly fabricated plight. Naive. He would have chuckled but found his throat sore from the last fit.

* * *

Lucifer’s apartment was somehow even more gaudy and ridiculous up close. Michael leisurely made himself at home, making himself _presentable_. The less he relied on his Gift, the better. Showering, styling his hair and beard, selecting a suit - the classic black and white combo his twin preferred. As he painstakingly buttoned the shirt with one hand, he wondered how the Devil could be _this_ unbearably fussy.

* * *

It took some time to track Chloe Decker down. Apparently she was out and about doing detective work. The kind of detective work that involved shootouts in suspect’s houses. Michael smirked to himself briefly before smoothing out his now unblemished face. He double checked that his posture was straight, that his suit and hair were impeccable. He whistled a nonsense tune and sauntered into sight, “He _llo_ bad guy!”

* * *

Michael had a few unexpected hiccups assuming his brother’s identity, but he could _always_ fall back on the old “Hell changed me” line. Truly, becoming Lucifer Morningstar was almost _too_ easy.

Until it wasn’t. When Mazikeen of the Lilim figured him out, when the First Born, Amenadiel did as well. When his, Lucifer’s, relationship with Chloe Decker made him nauseated. He could scarcely do more than kiss her, and as a result she was no longer sure of her - supposed - returned, traumatized lover. And that child, Trixie, unnervingly canny little thing; he suspected she had some inkling of his charade from the beginning.

He was cornered, and his body _hurt_. Life as Lucifer meant always being “on”, always going. Even at rest, there was no hiding. Not when the Detective slept curled into his broken body.

In a fit of desperation, he began sabotaging everything he could. His chest ached at the destruction he wrought upon all these lives his brother had touched, that he had begun to grow attached to, but he could think of no better way to attract the Devil’s attention.

And it worked, Lucifer stood before him in the flesh. Tumbler in hand, almost careless; great white wings spread, threatening in truth. Thank, _not_ -Dad, who hadn’t bothered even _now_ to show his holy mug. He was ready for this game to be over, just one more line to deliver.

“Welcome home. How do you like the mess I made?”

* * *

Lucifer leaned over his brother, one he hadn’t seen since he was booted out the pearly gates - so to speak. Michael.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, quite nicely for someone who’s life had been hijacked, he thought.

Michael snorted humorlessly, still sprawled out on the Italian marble. “Thanks.”

“It’s not an unfair question, Mikey.” Lucifer poked his brother’s shoulder, prompting him to hiss in pain in between his labored breaths, proving his point.

The Nightbringer glared at him. Rude. “You don’t know? You did this to me, _Sam_.”

Lucifer let his eyes flash as he grabbed a fistfull of Mi’s dreadful turtleneck - how dare he impersonate him dressed like _that_. He was Lucifer _bloody_ Morningstar, not some stuffy professor. “ _Don’t_ call me that.” Michael smirked, the expression tight with pain. _Arse_. “And I didn’t do this, you bloody liar.”

His cold eyes flashed with an emotion too brief for Lucifer to interpret, then hardened again, “ _Of course_ you don’t remember,” he spat. When the silence stretched for too long, Michael huffed, “Must I elaborate? The Rebellion? Your Fall? As the mortals say, ‘ring any bells?’”

“What _I_ remember of my Fall was burning to a crisp,” Lucifer growled, allowing his voice to lower to a hellish pitch.

Mi rolled his eyes to what drove even Lilim to their knees, “Truly tragic, brother. It must be such a trial, being able to hide your scars painlessly.” Lucifer’s feathers bristled at the offense, sharpening. Michael seemed to pay no mind, instead pushing himself back to lean against the sofa, grunting with the effort. “You grabbed me on the way down, Lucifer,” he sighed, finally.

Michael stumbled to his feet then, using the sofa as leverage; he kept his bad arm held close to his body. He clenched his jaw and without any further ado, unfurled his wings. Dulled, ragged things that snapped out unnaturally, his body swaying violently with them.

_A handful of black feathers. Mi screaming. Wind rushing terrifyingly past them._

Lucifer must’ve had some sort of telling expression with how Mi’s eyes darkened with understanding. He folded his ruined wings halfway to his back, the crooked right limb trembling with the effort. “Don’t you dare pity me,” he hissed quietly.

Lucifer paused, taking in his twin’s appearance; before grabbing his right shoulder, eliciting a groan, “Pity? I’m _furious_. You come down here and muck up my life just for a little bit of maiming between bros?” He smirked, the twist of his lips he _knew_ was predatory. Michael’s face mirrored it, his scar adding extra menace that Lucifer envied.

“Lucifer?” A voice called out behind them, one that he’d know anywhere; one that had been but a memory for the last twenty _hellish_ years.

_Chloe_.

* * *

Chloe pulled away first, panting. She placed a finger on Lucifer’s kiss-swollen lips when he trailed after her. “Where’s your evil twin? Is everything settled? Did he leave?”

“Mm?” He took a moment to gather his bearings. Turns out one needed to come up for air at some point, to keep one’s head in working order. Or when snogging their kryptonite at any rate. “Oh, Mikey? Yes yes, all settled. No more _Parent Trap_. Now-” He leaned forward again, only for the Detective to step away.

“ _Is he still here?_ Where’d he go?” she asked, her severe tone serving to both frustrate and arouse him. Yet he had to admit it was a good question. They reconciled, so perhaps Michael had buggered back off to Heaven. The reawakened bond that connected them ached traitorously. _Bloody Demiurge_.

Mi appeared from the study doorway then, settling the squirming in Lucifer’s gut, “I was bored.” He shrugged his good shoulder, an open book in his hand. Chloe glared venomously at him and it was a sight to behold. Until his twin cleared his throat, _rude_ ; allow a chap to ogle. “Do you have housing you can spare, brother? I suspect you two will be quite loud.” Lucifer smirked before the Detective _thwacked_ him on the chest, her face flushed. Goodness those bangs looked exceptional on her. _Focus!_

Lucifer coughed. “The floor below is currently unoccupied, consider it yours.” Chloe gave him an incredulous look he couldn’t decipher. It seemed he had lost all of his wits after he had laid eyes on her. Odd, but no matter.

Michael eyed him in much the same way Chloe had. _What?_ “How soundproof are your floors?”

At that Lucifer grinned, “Very.” He hadn’t cared for soundproofing himself, but a few of his guests did, so he obliged, ever the gracious host.

* * *

“Lucifer.”

Lucifer hummed, stroking mindless circles on Chloe’s bare arm. She turned over to face him and he nuzzled into her neck.

Chloe paused, distracted, before speaking again, “We need to talk about Michael.”

He groaned, the sound muffled. “ _Must_ we?” He brushed his lips across her jaw, “Can’t it wait? I believe we could be doing far more important things...” He accentuated each word with a gentle kiss. Chloe softly moaned, but pulled herself together and backed off. Lucifer whined at the loss.

“No. You have an _identical twin_ who stole your identity and tried to ruin your life. And he’s still here, one floor below. Is he staying? How do you know he won’t try something again?”

Lucifer flopped onto his back and sighed. “He was rather naughty, yes. But I assure you, darling, we’ve sorted everything out. No more ‘evil twin’ business. As for staying, I’m not entirely sure.” He couldn’t see Mi flying any sort of distance on that wing, perhaps even less so allowing one of their siblings to carry him.

Chloe narrowed her eyes, “‘Naughty’? He played at being in a relationship with me. He kissed me, pretending to be you.”

He grimaced, “I suppose that was rather deplorable.” Chloe’s anger dimmed and she looked away, playing with the bullet necklace.

“I… I didn’t know. I should have known… I’m so-”

Lucifer cut her off, “It’s not your fault. Mi’s power is Deception and he’s not above dishonesty. As well as what you said, he’s my twin, two halves of a whole.”

Chloe raised her eyebrows, “You’re not even a little upset? Jealous? Who are you and what have you done with Lucifer?” Her eyes got round then, “ _You’re_ not another brother, are you?”

He let loose a soft chuckle when he failed to hold it back, “Worry not, it’s just the two of us. And I’m perhaps a _little_ miffed, but not envious.” He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear, “Besides, I know that that lout cannot _possibly_ be as good a kisser as yours truly.” Chloe screwed up her face with a telling blush and he laughed. She shoved his shoulder and settled down in his embrace again.

“We’ll talk more tomorrow.” He hummed in acknowledgement, despite the faint dread that settled heavily in his stomach. Then, as if she could sense his trepidation, her lips were upon his again. “I missed you.”

“And I you, Chloe.”

* * *

He stepped into the elevator, watching the doors close on the sickly sweet reunion between Lucifer and his Detective. They had eyes only for each other, and Michael was forgotten.

He slumped against the wall once entirely out of sight, breathing shakily through the agonizing spasming of his lame side. The long-coming fight between the Sword of God and the Devil was ultimately short, yet brutal nonetheless.

The elevator bounced to a stop with a quiet chime, and he stepped out into living quarters furnished with basic, plain amenities. Opposite to Lucifer’s ostentatious preferences, it showed little character aside from the traces of a past occupant. Hooks in the ceiling and gashes in the walls. Perhaps from the demon, Miss Mazikeen. He wondered if she was the one who alerted Lucifer to him. Or perhaps Amenadiel, the First Born, after their altercation. Whichever the case, he’d have to offer his gratitude to the one responsible. Truly, it had been exhausting living the life of Lucifer Morningstar. His body could attest to that.

Michael limped along the walls of the apartment, using them to keep his balance. He tried not to be disappointed that this floor didn’t have a fireplace. The heat which emitted from it felt wonderful on his injuries, when he could find time away from his stolen life. He clenched his jaw and moved on, until he found a bed. He toed off his shoes and painstakingly rolled the jacket off, an action that never ceased to hurt terribly. He crawled into the oversized bed carefully, and curled up on his left side.

* * *

When Michael woke, it was to the sight of his twin staring at him from the edge of the bed. "Oh, good. I thought you'd died," he drawled, with far less concern than what those words stringed together warranted. Lucifer seemed to take the lack of reply as permission to continue, “Well,” he opened his arms, “rise and shine, brother! I made brekkie! Although, your portion _may_ have gone cold in your beauty sleep.” He dropped his arms and smirked like the ass he was. The expression irritated Michael, enough so that he felt the urge to punch it off. He settled for glaring. Lucifer raised his eyebrows as if to say, “that’s it?” _Dick_.

“Fine,” Michael huffed. He _did_ feel peckish, not that he’d admit it. It seemed the plane of mortals affected his metabolism. Never before had he needed to consume food.

Lucifer clapped his hands, “Marvelous! I’ll meet you up there, ta!” He then abruptly turned on his heel to leave, fleeing. Michael rolled his eyes and began extracting himself from the outlandishly large bed. His sleep-stiffened shoulder shifted in such a way that he audibly gasped. He stilled and breathed shakily through the tremors. When he looked up, he saw his brother returned, lingering in the doorway with brows drawn together.

Michael gathered his arm close and pushed his broken body to keep going. “I’m fine,” he growled. Lucifer fiddled with his cufflinks for a few seconds more, before giving a silent nod and leaving him be. Michael sighed and allowed himself to slump, halfway out of the bed, just for the moment.

* * *

Michael stepped into Lucifer’s tucked away kitchen, well familiar with the layout of the penthouse from his brief stint as the Devil.

Decker was sitting on a barstool at the island, scrolling through her mobile phone while Lucifer did his very best to distract her. Michael immediately straightened, biting back a groan. His brother may know of his condition, but no one else did. He would prefer to keep it that way.

The detective shrugged Lucifer away, “I have a life you know,” she said, without any real heat.

He put on a dramatic sigh, “Unfortunately, I do. Very well, De- _Chloe_ , carry on ‘catching up.’” Decker blushed at her given name - these two were even more absurd up close - and Lucifer at last noticed Michael standing, he’d admit it, _awkwardly_ in the open doorway.

“Ah, Mikey! Took you long enough! Here-” he bounced over to the oven and opened it, retrieving a plated omelette - still , never lies _his ass_ \- to slide over to the empty spot, next to Chloe Decker. She glared openly at him while he settled himself in front of his breakfast, not before hastily averting surprised eyes from his forehead. Shit, he'd missed hiding his scar in his haste. He didn’t miss the way she aborted a motion towards her hip, nor her forced casualness in standing up and moving away from him.

Lucifer looked between both of them, catching on to the tension. He pulled out his flask from his jacket, “Drink?” he offered to the room at large.

“No.” “Just water.”

The Devil shrugged and pulled a drink from the flask himself, before retrieving Michael’s requested water.

Decker folded her arms, “So, Michael…” He found himself strangely unable to maintain eye contact with her piercing gaze, fussing with his meal without consuming it. It seemed he wasn’t so hungry after all. “ _The_ Michael, the archangel Michael,” she said, tone scathing in contrast to the reverence of the prayers. He took a sip of his water before nodding, pathetic angel that he was. “You’re Lucifer’s identical twin and you what, decide to just waltz down here and steal his life?”

“Essentially, yes,” he answered bluntly, despite her obvious ire. Perhaps honesty would endear him to her. Although if anything, she seemed to be even angrier. He swallowed.

“And what’s to say you won’t try anything else? Any other evil plans you want to share?”

Lucifer chose to jump in then, “I told you, Detective, everything’s fine now-”

Her disbelieving huff cut him off, “Yeah, no. You may believe that, but I can’t trust him so easily, not after everything he pulled.” Michael’s hackles rose at being talked over. He also felt… shame. Did this one mortal truly affect him so? By how he began to feel for Lucifer’s humans at the end of his stunt… yes.

“I… apologize for any grief I may have caused you and your kin, truly.” Apparently, she did. Lucifer adopted an expression of pure innocence on his face that Decker didn’t fall for in the slightest. She opened her mouth to most likely further scold him, when her phone chimed with an incoming message. Lucifer looked as relieved as Michael felt when she paused to check it.

“New case just dropped.” She tilted the screen towards Lucifer, and he peered over her shoulder to read it.

He grinned, “Oh how I’ve missed work!” She smiled up at him, a small thing yes, yet the fire had extinguished in her sharp eyes. Then Lucifer had to open his mouth again, “Oh! And we can bring Mi along. Explain the sitch and all.”

“What?” Michael and the detective both blurted at once.

“I have a reputation to maintain you know, Detective. Besides, you would want me to keep an eye on my devious twin, correct? I can’t very well watch him if he’s here and I’m working alongside you. Nor can I abandon my partner to angelsit, can I?” Lucifer spoke so fast that neither Michael nor Decker could get a word in edgewise. He glared at his brother, offended. He wasn’t a _child_ to be talked over or _angelsat_. Although, why should he have expected any different, even from his twin?

The detective paused, either considering or speechless, until she threw her head back with an exasperated sigh, “Sure, _fine_.” She leveled her gaze back at Lucifer, “But he stays in sight at all times, understand?”

“Perfectly, Detective.”

Michael’s breakfast ended up being left, for the most part, untouched.

* * *

Michael slid into the backseat, after Decker had announced she was driving and Lucifer had sent him a challenging look that said, _You dare steal my place?_ No, he didn’t. He was over it.The two of them kept sending heated glances throughout the ride and Michael politely directed his attention to the window, watching the city go past. Attempting to ignore how little of the detective’s attention was on the road.

After suffering through stifling silence - on Michael’s end - for the better part of twenty mortal minutes, Decker cleared her throat. “So, Michael… Your accent’s different from your brother’s… How does that work?” He had to give it to her, for trying.

Michael opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by his brother. “It’s not his true accent-”

“And neither is yours,” he interrupted him right back. Lucifer stuck his tongue out, Michael repeated the gesture, and Decker rolled her eyes.

“I hadn’t thought of that but it makes sense. The Devil isn’t _actually_ British.” She giggled awkwardly to herself. Michael internally cringed.

“True, but it is nice, isn’t it?” Lucifer smirked, pushing his tongue into his cheek; smug. Underlying the bravado, he seemed to be trying to smooth out the conversation, for which Michael was glad. Then he had to go and ruin it, turning to address Michael, “I suppose you chose your dreadful American accent to blend in, correct?”

The Nightbringer sighed and rolled his eyes. “Not everyone wants to be the center of attention, brother.” Lucifer scoffed, then looked terribly offended when Decker nodded her head thoughtfully.

* * *

Michael trailed after his brother and his partner into the precinct. Heads turned at the sight of what he supposed the humans thought was a second Lucifer. Michael forced his posture straight and kept his limp to a minimum. The stop and go traffic had done him no favors, his entire right side throbbing with his heartbeat.

Lucifer clapped his hand on his - fortunately - left shoulder while he discreetly caught his breath after the stairs. Lucifer stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew out a shrill whistle, Michael winced at the volume. Chloe covered her face with her hand, a token protest. “He _llo_ LAPD! It is good to be back! Right-” he dropped his hand to point at himself, “ _I’m_ the Lucifer Morningstar you all know and love, and this-” he turned his body towards Michael with a pointed finger, “is my less handsome twin brother, Michael. He’s been impersonating me for the last few weeks or so but he’s over it now and he’s very sorry. Good? Good! That’s all, carry on!”

The entirety of the department continued to stare. Michael, even more than wanting to throttle his twin, wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Espinoza closed his moronic gaping mouth, and spoke up, “What the _fuck?_ There are _two_ of you assholes?”

Michael didn’t appreciate the implication that he was a copy of his brother, yet he snarked back anyway just as Lucifer did so, “Of course, Douche.” “Yes, do keep up, Douche.”

The detective shook his head, “Right… But, _seriously?_ You impersonated Lucifer? What the fuck, man?” Michael’s cheeks heated in shame.

The tiny forensic scientist, Lopez, marched up to him. Her stance was wide, hands on her hips. Intimidating despite her t-shirt with the cartoon avocado exclaiming: _Holy Guacamole!_ “For real?”

“I-” he started, yet her disappointed expression made him falter and lower his eyes. How _did_ these humans endear to him so; that an _archangel_ yielded to their whims? Not, that he was much of an angel anymore. He even properly Fell, did he not?

Her dark eyes widened, then she was… taking her shoe off? Why-? She smacked him with it, on his bad side. She was snarling something in Spanish but he could only focus on locking his knees so he wouldn't collapse in front of so many eyes. He must have failed because next he knew, only the arms of his twin prevented him from sliding to the floor.

His face burned and he closed his eyes against the stares. So much for no one else knowing. Lucifer slung his left arm around his shoulder, the right hanging uselessly at his side. “Come along, brother,” he murmured, as he half walked, half dragged Michael to a chair. He was gently lowered into the seat and he allowed himself to slump into it, sighing shakily.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself alone. His chest clenched at being ignored once again, until he spotted his brother ushering the humans back to their jobs. Even Decker seemed to be helping.

“Hey.” Michael shifted his gaze to Lopez, unsure if he was up to turning his head just yet. Her body language was much more closed off than before, smaller. It was wrong.

He nodded his head in a wary greeting. She bit her lip and rocked on her heels a bit before speaking up again, “I didn’t mean to uh… Well I _did_ mean to knock some sense into you, but not _that_ much sense! I’m-”

He cut her cute - no, rambling, apology off, “I deserved it.”

To his surprise, she snorted. “Yeah, you guys are brothers alright. Also, woah! What’s up with the American accent?”

“It’s the one I chose.”

“ _Ri-ight_ … Anyways, I _am_ sorry about hurting you so bad. But-” she crossed her arms, her earlier meekness gone, “I’m still super pissed, and you’re gonna have to do a heck of a lot of groveling before I even _think_ about forgiving you. If not for lying to me, for lying that way to Chloe.”

Michael supposed that was fair, and he said as much. She blinked at his simple answer but plowed ahead.

“Good!” Determined again, she stomped back towards her lab, only to stop and turn back to him; pointing two fingers at her eyes before pointing them at him, “I’m gonna keep an eye on you, mister evil twin!”

Michael nodded, both chastised and amused. He could admit, he quite enjoyed Lucifer’s humans. Wholly charming and welcoming people. Well, when they thought him Lucifer. But as punishments went, some stern words and a shoe were far from what his transgressions deserved. Perhaps… perhaps someday he may earn their forgiveness, and find a life for himself amongst them, as his brother had. He felt less empty amongst them, even if Father still hadn’t responded to such a scheme. Why did it matter anyways, when he felt alive again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Hopefully this ending satisfies you readers who were concerned over Mikey (love y'all ♥). If not, well, I have _actual_ fluff planned for part two of the Noctifer series ;)
> 
> Thank y'all so much for reading! Take care of yourselves and enjoy season 5!!
> 
> EDIT: CHECK OUT AZURE_IOLITE'S LOVELY LOVELY ART 😍  
> 
> 
> EDIT 2: [CHECK OUT ARKEN0'S AMAZING FANART (screams)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26166655)

**Author's Note:**

> Next and last chapter up in a couple of days!


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